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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439334">Solo per un'ora, perdutamente</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MT8/pseuds/MT8'>MT8</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Young Pope (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Clubbing, M/M, Priests, Secret Identity, Undercover</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:02:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,504</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439334</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MT8/pseuds/MT8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cardinal Assente enjoys a night out clubbing trying to forget his commitments, his one-sided love and who he is in general.</p><p>Set after his confession to Gutierrez and before the start of his thing with Cavallo.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mario Assente/OC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Solo per un'ora, perdutamente</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to my precious beta/proof-reader for enabling me to post a readable fic. Thanks to the lovely folks over at Discord for making this year more tolerable through our collective obsession for this show and Assente in particular. I couldn’t really let 2020 end without posting this goddamn fic I started writing in march, hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mario Assente enters the flat and leaves the cardinal outside.</p><p>He bought the flat on impulse when Lenny Belardo decided to destroy his career and his life with it. He spent months picking the furniture and carefully decorating it. When the cigarettes weren't enough of a relief valve, he'd buy a new item, a physical representation of the man he could have been, would have been and probably should have decided to be in spite of the call. The open space kitchen plus living room is everything the Vatican is not: contemporary, minimal and balanced. The greyscale of the furniture is complemented with a few low maintenance plants and a tasteful Saint Sebastian oil painting bought from the disbelieving young artist himself. To an untrained eye it may all look far cheaper than what normally surrounds him, it is not.</p><p>It still smells like wood polish and new plastic. </p><p>He hangs the wide-brimmed hat first, then the out-of-season scarf, then the clerical collar.<br/>
Mario strips, showers away the remains of his daylight identity, and deliberately sprays enough cologne to make heads turn. His hair hurts as he ruffles it with some gel, too used to the constriction of being slicked back with pomade. </p><p>He reverently takes out a red silk neckerchief from the top drawer of the closet. The man in the long mirror poses and smiles. Caressing the accessory, his neck feels immediately warmer, the feeling of something lost returning to him. The fitted dark jeans come naturally after that, just like the tight black shirt. The contacts slip in effortlessly. And his eyes are so big without the glasses he might as well add some mascara to the mix.</p><p>It's still early.</p><p>Over-eager, as always.</p><p>They say cigarettes help with hunger, but his stomach begs to differ. As he lights the third one he realizes his cardinal ring is still on his finger. He can't help but laugh.</p><p>“The devil is in the details,” he whispers absentmindedly as he pulls the ring off. He leaves the half-finished cigarette hanging on the edge of the windowsill.</p><p>His finger is even paler than the rest of his skin where the ring used to be. He carefully stores the ring away in a side pocket of his bag. He picks a simpler one - sleek, cold, made of steel - to take its place.</p><p>It's warm outside.</p><p>The road is quiet, a trash-collecting truck beeps in the distance. He rolls up his sleeves to let Rome get under his skin. Walking to the club is a therapeutic ritual. Each step, each breath of the polluted air helps him shut down his conscience, helps him pretend to forget. By the time the club’s entrance is in sight, he feels nothing but the need to disappear in the dark and dance.</p><p>He pauses, the beats from the club like a pulse ringing into his ears. He takes a metallic case out of his back pocket, pulls out a thin, long cigarette and a tiny red lighter. He lights it, keeping his eyes on the pavement, closes them, pulls a mouthful of smoke, inhales and exhales through his half closed lips. He can feel the smoke sweeping through his teeth. He looks up and watches a group of giggling young women and a tall, bearded, beautiful young man wearing mismatched clothes stumble behind a nearby parked car. They take turns draining what looks like homemade gin and lemon from a plastic bottle.</p><p>The bouncers - a short, stocky woman in a white t-shirt and leather jacket, and a wardrobe of a man - exchange a glance and smirk.</p><p>Mario can't help but look back at the group as they stagger towards the entrance. The boy sways, using the girls for support in every step he takes. When he reaches the bouncers he slams the crumpled empty bottle in the bin, right in their faces.</p><p>“Francesco!” chorus the hysterical girls, their efforts to be subtle about getting drunk in advance to avoid paying for overpriced drinks inside wasted.</p><p>The male bouncer pushes them in as quickly as he can; they could carry firearms in those tiny bags for what he cares.</p><p>Something makes Mario’s breath catch as he watches the scene, watches that thoughtless boy. He hurries to take another drag from the cigarette that had been burning between his fingers uselessly.</p><p>Is this what Gutierrez saw in that boy of his?<br/>
Friendship.<br/>
Effortless beauty.<br/>
Carelessness.<br/>
A life of unapologetic fun ahead.</p><p>“Here to collect your children?” the male bouncer winks.</p><p>He let the cigarette burn itself again. The lit part falls to the floor. He's not lighting it again.<br/>
With a glare, he saunters inside.</p><p>The air lacks oxygen already, makes his clothes stick to his skin. The dance floor is crowded, the live show is over and the DJ set that's going to carry them through the rest of the night has thankfully taken its place. He can't stand third rate drag queens lip-synching poorly.</p><p>The music is terrible, anyway. Some Catholics punish themselves with cilice, with starvation or very long pilgrimages. He considers this his atonement: dancing to commercial music.</p><p>He sits on a tall stool at the counter, his back turned to the bartenders, legs crossed to better display their length. He's drinking a Negroni, in spite of the look the bartender gave him. Mario's fully aware it's way past the time for Negroni, but he's hardly going to drink vodka and Redbull. The drink is as bitter as he feels and alcoholic enough to dissolve his train of thoughts.</p><p>Not all of them, unfortunately.</p><p>Every average-height, toned, shirtless, long-haired young man catches his eye. The lump in his throat makes it hard to breathe with fear and anticipation. The idea of seeing a middle-aged, tender-faced, bearded man dancing with any one of them…</p><p>He drinks and winces.</p><p>Would Gutierrez dance, though? Mario laughs. He would be terrible at that. But he'd try for the sake of that pretty young thing he's fucking.</p><p>He looks for the familiar sight of a cigarette held high, a dancer hoping to get away with smoking inside without burning his date. He decides it's late enough to take that chance and pats his pockets for his cigarette case.</p><p>“Are you waiting for somebody?”</p><p>He rolls his eyes and doesn't even turn to look at the stranger. Mario just stares on, pretending to be looking at the dancing crowd.</p><p>He drains the Negroni and turns to slam the glass on the counter. The ice spills and the bartender is not too happy about it.</p><p>As he moves to stand he has the misfortune of turning in the stranger's direction.</p><p>He's a little shorter than Mario - but who isn't? – and a little older. He can't really make out his face in the dark; flashing lights show glimpses of a messy beard, short dark hair, and dark eyes. He's not... pretty. Yet he can't help but stare a little too long.</p><p>As ‘Nail, Hair, Hips, Heels’ by Todrick Hall makes the whole dance floor erupt into delighted screams, Mario snaps out of it and dives into the forest of bodies, his arm stretched higher than the heads of the dancers. He even takes a drag as he goes.</p><p>The music is a little too quick for his liking, so he decides to ignore half of the beats. His body moves like fabric whipped by the wind. He almost doesn't notice the smell of sweat all around him.<br/>
Nothing but just his heartbeat, his breath getting shorter and shorter, his clothes becoming increasingly uncomfortable - and dark eyes taking in all of it.</p><p>He gets elbowed. They stomp on his feet. Some oiled-up, far-too-muscular, far-too-young man tries to grope him. He keeps dancing, aware at all times of the stranger’s eyes on him.</p><p>The stranger lets him dance for two more songs before disappearing altogether. Just as Mario decides he must have lost interest, he shows up again with a Negroni and a gin and tonic with a rosemary branch in it. He pushes the Negroni in Mario's hands and gets impossibly close to him. Unbothered by the music and the shoving crowd, his free hand slides around Mario's side, dips for his ass. He has stopped dancing. And breathing.</p><p>The touch he was anticipating doesn't come. The stranger goes for Mario's back pocket, takes the cigarettes case and waves it, he gets closer to shout in his ear.</p><p>“Are you done with the warm up?”</p><p>And just tilts his head in the general direction of the exit, turns to go.</p><p>Mario follows.</p><p>The outside of the club is a different world: quiet, colder, groups of friends chain-smoking and chatting in too-loud voices, the deafening music still ringing in their ears. Some lonely souls frantically refresh Grindr.</p><p>The stranger smiles at Mario's cigarettes. He almost hurriedly tries to justify his choice of brand: those delicate, feminine things old ladies preferred.</p><p>“Sorry, I'm trying to quit, you know,” says the man as he lights up and gives everything back. The cigarette looks even more ridiculous in his smaller but very manly hands.</p><p>Mario almost forgets to light his own as the stranger exhales with a sigh of pleasure: “I'm Luca, by the way.”<br/>
They shake hands. It feels very stupid.</p><p>“Mario,” he replies with the steadiest voice he can manage.</p><p>He's not pretty. Not beautiful by any canonical standard. He's just wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a somewhat elegant jacket. But in that moment, he's the hottest man Mario has ever laid eyes upon.</p><p>They click their glasses and drink in silence.</p><p>Mario is so alert he can smell the rosemary. He blames his cooling sweat for his shaking hands.<br/>
He's the prey of a carnivore that is taking his sweet time toying with him, but is ready to attack any moment.</p><p>Or so Mario hopes.</p><p>He needs the nice, benevolent face of Gutierrez out of his mind.</p><p>He is not spoiling this.</p><p>He moves into the stranger's - Luca's - space and kisses him on the lips. The soda aftertaste almost ruins it, but Luca pushes lightly on his chest, snags the glass from his hands, puts them on a nearby windowsill.</p><p>The next thing he knows is his back hitting the wall of the club, hard.</p><p>The beard itches, but he barely notices. There's too much passion: lips, tongue, hands, a whole body pushing onto him, crushing him.</p><p>It's the best Mario has felt in a while. Perhaps the best he has ever felt, but that might be his thirst and the two Negronis dampening his perception.</p><p>A lewd whistle interrupts them.</p><p>“Ah! I see, you found a daddy for yourself!” the bouncer shouts from the entrance. It’s the guy from earlier who made the comment about Mario’s ‘kids’. He’s making thumbs up at them and laughing like a maniac. The female bouncer slaps him on the back of his head.</p><p>Mario is frozen, still holding onto Luca's jacket's sleeves. He feels his face going very red. His whole body on the verge of crumbling. They’re out in the open for anyone to see - what if someone recognizes him?</p><p>Luca just laughs, puts both his hands on Mario’s hipbones and brings him back to the important stuff.</p><p>“You don't strike me as the toilet kind of guy. Any chance you may want to continue this in private?”</p><p>Mario almost insists on the toilet. But that gentle and feral face is so full of promises he's afraid of wasting a potentially very long night.</p><p>*</p><p><br/>
The sound of him shuffling through his keys is as loud as an alarm in the silent building. He feels the eyes of the world on them, even though he's well aware most people are probably sleeping by now.</p><p>It is happening.</p><p>Luca is still there, behind him. He doesn't need to look back.</p><p>Mario opens the door and steps inside, but Luca doesn't let him turn around. He places one hand at the nape of Mario’s neck and closes the door with the other. Mario stills.</p><p>The hand sneaks under the neckerchief, a light touch. The thumb presses a little and Mario can feel ever single hair on his body stirring. He's suddenly very aware of his vertebrae as the thumb improvises a massage. The other hand just rests on his left hip bone.</p><p>The neckerchief comes undone and he can't move. Mario doesn't know what to do with his hands - with anything, really - so he just breathes hard.</p><p>Now both hands anchor him at his hips and Luca kisses his nape. It's so simple, so tender. His belt makes an outrageous deafening noise as Luca unties it. Mario's bigger, longer hands tentatively help him undo his button, pull down the zip.</p><p>Mario sighs desperately as Luca finally touches him through his briefs. It's glorious, electric. He’s missed this so much. But of course Luca doesn't focus too long on that. His hands go back up, sliding under his shirt, closer and closer to those hip bones he seems to like so much.</p><p>Mario just can't help but turn. He must look so stupid, all riled up by something so small, but Luca's whole face smiles up at him and his thumbs start to press into his flesh, onto his hip bones.</p><p>“Nice flat,” he says.</p><p>Mario rolls his eyes and grabs Luca's face with both hands, so hard he might crack his cheekbones, and kisses him. His payback is the pressure on his hips reaching bruising point. He breaks the kiss and is left panting, staring straight into Luca's eyes, his hands still on his face.</p><p>They look at each other for an endless moment.</p><p>Luca pushes him backwards, attacks his mouth, and doesn't stop until they hit the edge of the honestly-too-expensive glass kitchen table. He grabs Mario by the shoulders and turns him around.<br/>
Mario braces himself on the surface and looks back in anticipation.</p><p>Luca is fumbling with his wallet. He curses. Receipts, coins, and finally a condom and a couple of tiny lube packs fall to the floor. Mario laughs and Luca looks up with a deadly stare, but he's smiling and his cheeks are rosy.</p><p>“Not a word,” Luca warns him.</p><p>It's weirdly endearing.</p><p>Mario hurriedly turns around again, his breath catching in his throat and not out of arousal. He bites his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes tightly. Why does he always mix things up?<br/>
This is sex. Enjoy it.<br/>
That was not endearing. <br/>
That was annoying.<br/>
Luca's presence here has one purpose only.</p><p>It's the sounds that shock him the most. A loud crack across his bottom. His own gasp.</p><p>Luca doesn't give him time to be outraged, he pushes hard on his hipbones again.</p><p>“You need to relax, Mario.” The hands are gentle but sure as they pull him backwards to meet Luca's crotch.</p><p>Mario flushes and his heartbeat speeds up. He shouldn't be surprised or flattered by the erection pressing against his lower back, but he is.</p><p>“Hurry up, then.” He hopes his voice sounded a little surer from the outside.</p><p>At least it has the effect he hoped. Luca yanks down Mario's trousers, though it takes some tries. He's pleased by the tightness of his jeans. Those hands shoving and pushing cut his breath short. Luca then slowly slides his hands underneath Mario's underwear, rests on his cheeks then around onto his hips, pushing down, careful not to get too close to his cock. Mario’s skin is over sensitized, if he closes his eyes he can make out all the lines on those palms.</p><p>The hands come back up to massage his buttocks, firmly, bordering on painfully at times. He focuses on keeping his breath steady.</p><p>He’s been missing this a little too much. Anticipation is getting the best of him, when Luca parts his cheeks, he moans. It's not loud, but it raises from the pit of his stomach all the way out of his mouth.<br/>
The lube is cold, Luca's finger pressing but never going further than a massage is torture. He's hard and it doesn't bother him that Luca can see it, nor does their different state of undress. He knows those dark eyes are taking it all in, reading him.</p><p>Luca leans down and nibbles his skin through the fabric of his shirt across his shoulder blades. His breath is warm and soothing. When the finger finally slips inside, Mario is pleased by the lack of discomfort. He rolls his hips upwards, encouraging Luca to start moving. </p><p>Mario keeps his eyes closed. He listens to their shared breath; he cherishes the wet warmth of the path Luca is still tracing on his back; lets the slow rhythm of preparation melt his tension.</p><p>He's so turned on even the fact that Luca pauses to put on a condom makes his heart swell.</p><p>“Lean on the table,” Luca says, and then he moans with a gentle push. Mario realizes his legs are shaking as he shifts forward to relieve them of some of his weight.</p><p>He opens his eyes to see a reflection on the surface he doesn't recognize: the skin is aflame, glistening with sweat, his damp hair sticks to his forehead, his mascara has turned into an irregular shadow around his half-lidded eyes and his open lips are swollen from Luca’s attentions and his own bites. His erection twitches and he swallows, avoiding making eye contact with his disheveled reflection again.</p><p>It's shocking how naturally Luca is able to guide himself inside and yet Mario can't breathe. His whole being is reduced to the little burn, the stretch, the feeling of Luca inching forward, making his way into him.</p><p>He moans when Luca stops. If it hurts, he can't say.<br/>
Every fiber of himself just screams that this, this is what his body was made for. Bent over a table, his hips pressing onto the edge, a man buried deep inside of him and his own erection dangling between his legs.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Luca's hands gently trace circles on his hips.</p><p>Mario flinches and it takes all of his will to force out an answer. How do you explain the fulfillment, the regrets, the overflowing arousal, the nostalgia, the blind and utter joy?</p><p>“It's been... a while.” It's more of a whimper than a sentence.</p><p>“Shhh...” Luca keeps caressing him, his touch gets lighter and lighter. “There's no rush.”</p><p>The words are tender, but Mario can finally identify the tiniest tremble in his voice. He replies with a sigh of surrender.</p><p>Luca starts rolling his hips, slowly, to make him adjust. The rocking movement is hypnotic, Mario puts his forehead on the glass, his breath fogs the surface. Something is missing, or rather he physically feels like something – someone - is just out of reach. When his mind is ready to embark on a journey to ruin the whole experience Luca's moves become ampler and faster.</p><p>The sharp pain of the table pressing against his hips is the only thing nailing him down. He reaches for the edge of it to hold onto.</p><p>Flashes of Luca cursing and grunting, make their way into his fogged brain. He knows he's moaning too.</p><p>Luca stops, suddenly. Mario jumps in surprise. Before he has a chance to embarrass himself, Luca pulls him back, reaches around and grabs Mario's erection.</p><p>He shouts. He looks back over his shoulder, red-faced, aroused, pissed.</p><p>Luca smirks and pulls his cock.</p><p>Mario bites his own wrist and yet he can still hear himself.</p><p>Luca starts moving again. It's quick. Short. Frantic.</p><p>It's good.</p><p>It's everything he has ever wanted.</p><p>Hands, cock, Luca's sweat, his own fading cologne.</p><p>With his last droplets of consciousness, Mario reaches back, claws at Luca's arm and comes.<br/>
Luca comes shortly afterwards, spasms with it, leaning heavily onto Mario. Crushing him onto the table. That makes it all even better.</p><p>“Fuck.” He breathes hotly on Mario's shoulder blades. Kisses them.</p><p>It's ironic how suddenly light he feels. He can't think beyond the desire for this moment to never stop.<br/>
Luca pulls out. Mario allows himself to moan his disappointment.</p><p>The other man is back in a matter of seconds, gently helping him up, turning him around and kissing him languidly, they melt into each other.</p><p>Luca helps him out of his jeans and stands to kiss him again.</p><p>“Do you think you can walk?” he smiles, their foreheads touching.</p><p>Mario sneers. “Don't flatter yourself,” he bites back. But it's silly coming from the rag-doll he’s turned into.</p><p>He lets Luca support him on the short walk to the bed. He has to fight to keep his eyes open. He doesn't want to miss anything, not now that he's found it. He idly sits on the bed, stares at Luca, his mouth slightly agape as he undresses.</p><p>Luca's body is not toned by manic exercise, but everything that matters is in its place. It's stupid how, this... thing is progressing out of order. He doesn't regret what just happened. At all. But not having witnessed what that body and that face looked like during… the act… it's a shame.</p><p>“Enjoying the view?”</p><p>Mario looks away before he can stop himself. The laugh that comes after that is expected but still hurts. Luca bends to kiss him again while he unbuttons Mario’s rumpled shirt, as Mario finally shrugs it off. Luca steps back, making a show of admiring every inch of his exposed skin. </p><p>Yet again Mario feels the undeniable wish for this moment to never stop. It's so clear it gives him goosebumps. He reaches out with both hands, takes Luca's and drags him onto the bed, over himself and initiates another long, lazy kiss. Luca seems determined to admire his body with his hands as well and Mario couldn't have hoped for a better way to welcome sleep.</p><p>*</p><p><br/>
He wakes up alone. Unsurprisingly. It takes a few blinks to remind himself of who he is.</p><p>He wishes he hadn't.</p><p>The contacts hurt, his hips hurt, his legs, and of course an area he's not going to list hurt.</p><p>He sits on the edge of the bed, enjoying it all. If he's lucky the bruises are going to last for a while, even when last night starts to have the consistency of a dream.</p><p>He doesn't need Gutierrez's pity, the guilty blink-and-you'll-miss-it looks: he's desirable, he could have it all outside their marble and gold cage. </p><p>That's all that matters.</p><p>He's startled by the gurgle of the moka pot and the warm smell of coffee.</p><p>The sight of Luca, sitting at his table, in his boxers, pouring them both an espresso stuns him into paralysis. <br/>
“You don't live here, do you? There's nothing edible in this house.” Luca waves a greasy paper bag to encourage Mario to join him. “Lucky me, there's a bakery right across the street.”</p><p>He tears open the bag and places it in the middle of the table in lieu of a plate. Two steaming croissants fill the air with their delightful smell.</p><p>He doesn't remember the last time he had one of those, or breakfast for that matter.</p><p>“At least you have coffee,” Luca says. </p><p>“I'm a... dance instructor. I travel a lot...” he lies and tentatively reaches for a croissant. He nibbles slowly, wide eyed.</p><p>“Oh, wow... that explains...” He gestures at Mario's torso. “All of that.”</p><p>Mario smiles, blushes and picks at a tiny morsel of the croissant.</p><p>“What explains all of this then?” Mario waves the croissant in Luca's direction “Escort? Unhappy marriage? Not out of the closet yet?”.</p><p>Luca gasps loudly, stands, comically outraged. He gifts Mario the view of his naked back as he rummages through the cabinets.</p><p>Mario lets him open them all before confessing, “Sorry. I don't have any sugar.”</p><p>Luca scoffs. “So this is how you thin bastards manage to look that good: removing anything even slightly pleasant from your lives...” He turns around with a grin, sips the coffee, grimaces at it.</p><p>Mario giggles and tries to choke it back with a fake cough. “Except cigarettes.” He picks up his metallic case from underneath the table and waves it triumphantly. He lights one, smoking as he sips his espresso, deliberately not offering Luca a cigarette. If he takes extra care in the way he moves his hand, the exact angle he bends his wrist at, it's entirely to tease the other man. Luca doesn't give him the satisfaction of staring too long though, he gets to the window, collects the unfinished cigarette from the night before, lights it on the stove and to Mario's horror somehow wins a proper laugh out of him.</p><p>The fleeting nature of this encounter and its impending end are what justify Mario's indulgence in his mind. He feels the ice creeping back at his extremities as the minutes go by, but the warmth of this unlikely pairing fights back.</p><p>“If anyone had told me this would be waiting for me in the morning I wouldn't have believed them.”</p><p>Luca clears the table, washes the cups, even cleans up the sink, struggling to extend their window of happiness. Mario stands to hug him from behind. It's all he can do to express how grateful he is without words. Luca caresses his arm and sighs.</p><p>“Right, I should be going...” He pats his arm twice, Mario lets go but doesn't move.</p><p>He turns around slowly and lets the other man gets dressed, avoiding his eyes. The pain of his freezing tissues radiates through his chest. He feels defeated, angry, but sadness overcomes it all. This hasn't gone according to plan. He wants to tell Luca to stay, to catch up later if he really needs to go, to keep in touch - somehow it makes it all worse. It's his soul that longs for Luca, not a traitorous body, something even the holiest of men sometimes could surrender to.</p><p>Luca checks his pockets and walks up to him, his eyes still glinting with the tiniest bit of hope on an otherwise resigned face. “Look, I know this is kind of desperate and stupid on my side but-” He takes Mario's hands and places a down-turned business card in them. “Call me, okay?”.</p><p>Luca gets on his tiptoes and pecks him on the lips. Mario just clasps the business card and smiles sadly, letting him walk out.</p><p>He stands where he is until the weight of the card is too much to bear. He should know better, but even his aching heart can't bring him to get rid of it. Luca will rest in an empty cabinet nobody will ever open again, looking for sugar.</p><p>Mario takes a long, warm shower, his eyes closed, mourning what the water washes away. He hides his physical memories of the night under his dark robes, seals them with the clerical collar. Buries them under the scarf and the wide-brimmed hat. His ruby and golden ring is a beautiful eulogy.</p><p>The cardinal walks out the door, locking Mario Assente in the flat-shaped vault.</p>
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